


Salve

by synchronik



Series: Rookie Year [7]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronik/pseuds/synchronik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The game referenced in this story is real and happened on July 8, 2013.  Bag Balm is also real (although I have no idea whether any of the Giants use it, many cowboys of my acquaintance swear by it).  California poppies are real.  The Mets are real.  Most of the rest of the stuff in this story is made up.  Except the sex--that part is obviously true.</p></blockquote>





	Salve

They come back into the clubhouse and shower and change, even Pence, who would normally work out after the game. _Apparently, sixteen innings is enough for anyone,_ Brandon thinks as he shrugs into his shirt. The reporters are there, of course, looking old and exhausted, just like the rest of them. Brandon doesn't want to think about what the stories will say tomorrow. He doesn't want to know.

_...your fault, your fault, your fault..._

The drive to his condo building would be easy this time of day, but he doesn't make it. He lives in the same building as Maddy and Belt, and Tim never visits him there because it would be too easy to get caught in the elevator, or when Belt comes over for a beer sometimes if his wife is already asleep when they get back.

Instead, Brandon takes the Embarcadero toward the Golden Gate and cuts inland after Pier 3, a roundabout route that has to be taken to Tim's quiet street at the foot of Coit Tower. It's an odd place for a professional athlete to live, a residential area away from all the clubs and trendy restaurants, where older couples walk their little dogs in the morning and nod hello without recognizing Tim, but Brandon thinks that might be what Tim likes about it.

Tim's there, coming back with his own little dogs as Brandon pulls into the garage. The dogs dart up to Brandon, snuffling happily at his jeans and tennis shoes, their leashes trailing behind them.

"Hey," Tim says. He sounds as tired as Brandon feels.

"Hey," Brandon says. Tim leans down to unhook the dogs' leashes and opens the door. Once everyone is inside and the dogs have been given treats and the door locked and the alarm set, Tim leans against the counter and sighs.

Brandon goes to him, circles his waist with one arm, presses his face into the crook of his shoulder, and sighs himself. Tim strokes his back.

"That sucked," Brandon mumbles against Tim's clean neck. Tim got his hair cut in the off season, shorn short, shorter than Brandon's ever seen it before, and he likes it. It makes Tim look younger, and Brandon likes that he has access to the smooth skin on the back of Tim's neck, especially when they fuck, but sometimes he misses being able to bury his face in Tim's long, dark hair and pretend that the world has gone away.

Tim gives a tired chuckle. "Yeah, it did." Tim smells...like Tim, and his hands on the small of Brandon's back are warm through Brandon's button down, and kneading gently.

"I felt good," Tim says. "Now I just need to feel good again next time."

"Hey," Brandon says. He kisses Tim's neck, right at the slope of his shoulder. "Don't." Another kiss, this one slower and with purpose. It works, too; Tim inhales and his hands tighten on Brandon's back.

"Aren't you tired?" Tim asks, but he's tugging Brandon in, fingers pressing on his spine.

Brandon gropes for the hem of Tim's shirt, wriggling his fingers up underneath it to the smooth skin of Tim's belly, just above the waistband of--

"Fuck!" Tim yelps, jerking away. "What the fuck?"

Before Brandon can answer, Tim's grabbed his wrist and is holding it out away from his body. "What the hell is on your hand?" he asks, shaking Brandon's wrist. "It feels like fucking sandpaper."

Brandon looks. His hands are always a little bit of a mess--"soft hands" are a description of his fielding, not the condition of his skin--but they do look particularly rough at the moment, the ridges of callus on his palms and fingertips raised and dry, like tiny mountain ranges. He hasn't been paying much attention to them lately; he's been too busy making errors and not hitting shit. "Sorry," he says.

"Jesus. You're not touching my dick with those," Tim says, and leads him down the hallway, still gripping his wrist. "Go lie down."

Tim heads into the guest bathroom and Brandon heads to bed, stripping off his clothes as he goes. It's probably for the best, he thinks, pulling back the blankets and falling into Tim's wide soft bed. He's beat. He hitches the 400-thread count sheet up to his waist--Tim's seen all of him from pretty much every angle there is to see, but there's still something to not leaving your junk spread all over the place--and turns his head into the pillow. He can hear Tim moving around, the click-click-click of the dogs' nails on the hardwood as they follow him down the hallway and into the bedroom, but he doesn't open his eyes. He'll shave the calluses down tomorrow, maybe borrow Bumgarner's Dremmel to make them really--

He smells it before he feels it, the sharp eucalyptus tingling in his nostrils, then Tim's got Brandon's right hand in both of his and is massaging salve into his palm. It's called Bag Balm and practically the whole pitching staff uses it thanks to Bumgarner and Cain, who swear by it. Apparently, it's for cow udders, which Brandon did not even know were called "bags" until Madison told him, holding out the green tin. "Keeps thur bags from chappin," Maddy had said as Brandon looked skeptically at the yellow goo. "Try it."

He hadn't tried it--it smelled weird--but apparently Tim hadn't been so reticent because he's rubbing Bag Balm into Brandon's fingers, working from base to tip. It feels like heaven.

The ointment is slightly warm, and Tim's hands are strong, pressing the flesh of Brandon's fingers all the way to the bone, releasing tension he didn't even know his hands had, pushing it out from the tips of Brandon's fingers to dissipate into the night air. 

"uhh," Brandon says, unable to say anything else.

Tim works Brandon's right hand methodically, finger by finger, joint by joint, pausing occasionally to replenish the Bag Balm until Brandon's skin feels saturated and waterproof. Tim sets Brandon's hand free and shifts on the bed, leaning over him to pick up the other hand and Brandon opens his eyes. 

The lamp by the bed is on, and Tim is cross-legged on top of the duvet, bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only black briefs, his head bowed over Brandon's fingers. His shoulders are wide and well-muscled and his hips are narrow, boy's hips, and all of his skin is pale pale pale, except his hands and forearms, which flex as he massages a fresh dollop of Bag Balm into Brandon's palm.

Tim glances up as he works and notices Brandon looking at him. He smiles. "What?" he says.

"Nothing," Brandon says, because there's nothing he can say that will express what he feels when he looks at Tim. 

Tim smiles again and ducks his head. He doesn't like being looked at, not by fans and not by people he knows. He'd be perfectly happy if he could throw baseballs for a living without showing his face. 

When Brandon's left hand is done, Tim releases it and puts the cover back on the tin, picking it up with the edges of his fingers. He sets the tin carefully on the nightstand, leaning forward on one elbow, his body coming close to Brandon's then retreating as he leans back, rubbing his own hands together so the excess balm gets absorbed. "Better?" he asks.

Brandon lifts one hand and places it on Tim's chest, brushing his palm over Tim's nipple. His hand leaves a shiny streak on the skin it passes over. "You tell me."

"Better," Tim says, and tips forward, until his body covers Brandon's. 

Normally, Brandon is the one who ends up doing the fucking instead of getting fucked. Not all the time, but that just seems to be the way things work out, generally, Tim falling back and spreading his legs, eyes half-lidded and wanting. 

Not all the time, though. Not tonight.

Tim arranges him until he's face down on top of the blankets and massages him with Bag Balm, his feet, his calves, his thighs, his ass (although somehow not in a seductive way), the muscles along his spine. By the time Tim gets to his shoulders, Brandon feels like the goo Tim has used on his skin, boneless and warm. The smell of the salve has sunk into his brain, medicinal and comforting. Tim leans down and mouths Brandon's ear, his hands sliding out the lengths of Brandon's arms, hooking in the spaces in between Brandon's fingers, then sliding back. He's sitting on Brandon's ass, still in his underwear, and the movement makes Brandon acutely aware of Tim's cock resting in the crevasse between his buttocks, shifting back and forth just a little.

"How tired are you?" Tim asks. 

Brandon's dick twitches. "I'm okay," he murmurs.

"'Cause if you're tired you can just lay here," Tim says. One of his hands has crept down and is massaging Brandon's ass. "You know, since you have to play tomorrow."

Brandon smiles into the sheet. "I could do that."

Tim kisses his cheek and hops off the bed, probably to get the necessary supplies. Brandon's a little relieved that he wasn't thinking about using Bag Balm. 

He forgets, in between times, how much he likes the feeling of Tim taking him. Tim goes slow, his hands braced on the bed next to Brandon's ribs, until he's all the way in, his hips pressed against Brandon's ass. Brandon can feel the Tim's hot wet breath between his shoulder blades.

Then Tim begins to move. Slow, slight movements at first, getting Brandon used to it, allowing him to relax. He lowers his body to Brandon's and the angle changes and he can feel Tim's stomach, his pecs, his arms, all flexing in time with his hips. Brandon arches his back and shoves himself up on his forearms instinctively, wanting to be closer. The air is full of eucalyptus and the sound of their rough, mingled breath. Brandon hooks his feet around Tim's calves, holding him in. 

Tim leans over him, his teeth grazing Brandon's shoulder in time with the thrusts of his hips, his soft high moans. _He makes that sound when I fuck him,_ Brandon thinks, _that same sound_ and something about that thought feels right and hot, and Brandon is coming all over the duvet before he even has a chance to give a word of warning. Tim gasps, then shouts, his fingers tight around Brandon's biceps.

They lay there for a moment, still joined, then Tim slides away, rolling to the side of the bed to dispose of the condom in the covered trashcan. There hadn't been a lid until they woke up one morning and found Cy playing with a used condom in the living room like it was a sock, which was simultaneously disgusting and dangerous and fucking hilarious. Now all the trashcans in the house have lids.

"You're going to need to dry clean this," Brandon says, wiping himself off with a dry corner of the bedspread. 

"Nah, fuck it," Tim says, pulling his underwear back on. He doesn't like sleeping naked, even in his own house. "I'm saving it to frame you for murder."

"Gross." Brandon slides his feet under the covers. "Who'm I killing?"

"Most of the Mets for starters." Tim hits the lights and curls up against Brandon in the dark, hooking his leg over Brandon's thighs, his hand over Brandon's shoulder. His fingers trail through Brandon's chest hair, sticking slightly from the balm. Brandon feels like a monkey, sometimes, next to Tim, who is almost hairless everywhere but his head and his groin, but Tim likes it. 

"Sorry again," Brandon says. 

"No." Tim presses himself against Brandon, squeezing with his whole body. "That's bullshit. It was sixteen innings, man."

"Still--"

Tim leans forward, pressing his mouth over Brandon's. "Shh," Tim says. "Forget it."

"But I--"

Another kiss, this one deeper and more intense. "Forget it," Tim whispers. Brandon feels his hand slip down Tim's waist and over the curve of his ass, an automatic response to Tim's body on his. He's too tired to do it again, but his dick twitches anyways, another automatic response. Tim's smile blooms against his mouth like the California poppies on the balcony turning their faces to the first kiss of the morning sun.

**Author's Note:**

> The game referenced in this story is real and happened on July 8, 2013. Bag Balm is also real (although I have no idea whether any of the Giants use it, many cowboys of my acquaintance swear by it). California poppies are real. The Mets are real. Most of the rest of the stuff in this story is made up. Except the sex--that part is obviously true.


End file.
